


much less believe the truth

by pettycells



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drabble, Flirting, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Possibly Pre-Slash, Season/Series 04, bar setting, focuses more on friendship but can be seen as pre-slash, they play darts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 17:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettycells/pseuds/pettycells
Summary: A choice, a friendship, a sign. One Dean is trying to avoid, one he never expected to find in a seedy backwater bar in South Dakota.The last seems to come as an unfortunate packaged deal.





	much less believe the truth

**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties. Most of this was written before I really knew what was up with season 4, but I liked it too much to try and rewrite it. The ‘decision’ is left vague for a reason. I think it has something to do with being Michael’s meatsuit.
> 
> Title taken from Highly Suspect’s Lydia. I dunno. Would Dean listen to Highly Suspect? Has he? Lol.
> 
> This is still subjected to editing.

Smoky but homey, it’s a bar that’ll do. Dean drags himself in, snags a seat right at the forefront, and orders three fingers of the strongest liquor they got on rocks. It’s not very strong, after all (they’re small, real home-grown), but it’s helluva lot better than rotting away under angel watch and getting grilled by Sam’s insatiable curiosity.

Screw that. As Johnny Stevens says, _‘Dean can’t f-cking breathe.’_

He just wants a little time _away_ from all the attention. It’s suffocating, especially for one who isn’t too keen on divine attention to begin with. It appears at least he’ll get his wish, because he’d driven far and long enough into the roughest ends of town to find this dive, and the bartender – though attractive in his own right – isn’t of the direction Dean swings. The rest of the patrons are older, lonelier, and similar to Dean. He’ll leave them be, and they will return the favor.

There is a decision here to be made, but Dean loses it in the amber of his glass. He signals for more when he finishes his first, and forgets time while he drinks.

Bliss. 

Until, of course, trouble comes knocking.

He feels the prickle on the back of his neck before the figure takes the seat at his left. Tan and black and blue sway in the corner of his vision, but he would’ve known who it is without looking. The whiskey has dulled the bite of his irritation, so his voice is noncommittal when he speaks, “Took you a while to find me.”

“As you intended, of course,” Castiel parries. Damn the quick-witted bastard. Shouldn’t he be above petty retorts?

“As I intended, of course,” Dean mimics, because he’s lame and he doesn’t really care. He takes another sip of his drink. The quiet settles like an old friend between them, imperishable even in the slow churn of chatter from the rest of the bar. It’s what’s expected in the angel’s company, especially if it’s Dean, although he isn’t burning holes into the side of his face with his gaze this time. That’s odd.

The bartender comes by and gives Castiel a raised eyebrow. “What he’s having, please,” he replies to the unasked question, and the guy delivers. That’s odder. “You don’t drink,” Dean observes absentmindedly.

“Not unless the occasion calls for it.” Bartender swings back by with his drink and sets it at his hands, but in spite of his words, Castiel doesn’t touch it. He says instead, “You are peeved and have been trying to run from the matter at hand since it was brought up, and I have no desire to argue a moot point with you at so late an hour. Therefore, as human protocol dictates, I cannot let you drink alone.”

Dean hides his huff of laughter behind another drink. He doesn’t want the humor, the swell of pride at Castiel’s regard for Earthly customs to take up space in his chest, so he lets the churn of annoyance resurface at the mention of the _matter at hand_. “Damn right I’m peeved,” he growls into his whiskey. It’s all he wishes to say, so he makes it clear he’s finished by killing the last of his liquor and beckoning for more.

Castiel does watch him then. “I understand it’s irritating. I’ve watched you for years, Dean, and you carry burdens very heavily on your shoulders. This one you bear no less. But you must know… you have to face it sometime. You must come to a decision eventually.”

This is _exactly_ what Dean was avoiding. Frustration curls in his gut and his fingers creak around the empty glass. Barkeep is busy, so he seeks out a different distraction. The dive doesn’t offer pool, but his gaze skates across a dartboard on his right. He stands abruptly. “C’mon,” he orders, tapping Castiel’s shoulder with a knuckle. “Let’s play a round.”

Castiel follows his direction with a raised eyebrow. He sizes up the meager dartboard like an opponent; something in his expression changes, and he decides to humor Dean as he rises and follows. Dean’s just glad he sticks to his word and lets the subject drop. He plucks the darts from the board and hands six of them to Castiel, who pinches one between his fingers and rolls it back and forth.

“You know how to play, right?” asks Dean.

“Based on my minimal knowledge of humanity and your eclectic variety of pastime activities,” Castiel begins studiously, “I’ll wager the object of this particular venture is to throw these darts as close to the bullseye as possible.” Then he eyes Dean askance, as if he could sense he was laughing at him.

Dean snorts derisively, laugh in his throat. “Here,” he mocks, stepping even with the dartboard. “I’ll go first so you can see how it’s done.”

They watch Dean’s dart stick into a single. “I know how to throw sharp objects, Dean,” Castiel deadpans afterward.

“Not saying you don’t,” Dean grunts back. He steps out of the way, beckons for Castiel to take his place, and guffaws at his copy-cat stance. “Just making sure you won’t be asshurt when I win.” He beams, big and shit-eating.

Castiel takes another look at his chosen dart, before he settles into stance and tosses it. He must’ve overcompensated for his strength, because the dart falls short and plunks into the black outermost ring, much to the amusement of Dean. 

“This activity,” Castiel remarks, moving aside. “I believe it was derived from the sport of archery, or javelin throw. The Greeks believed the practice of javelin throwing was handed down by Heaven, and they’d be right. It was an instrument used commonly in the act of war by angels. I myself was well rehearsed in the law of this weapon.”

“You trying to intimidate me, Cas?” Dean challenges. He gets his dart in the closer circle of singles, though still misses the triple. He shoots Castiel a playful glare.

“No,” Castiel replies, taking his place. He looks at Dean harmlessly, but the curve at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I am merely making sure you are not asshurt when I win.”

Dean’s got his verbal weaponry loaded and ready – _you’ll have to start making points for that_ – but he squashes it between his teeth when Castiel lands his dart dead center. The angel gives him a look with a glint in his eye, which for him is practically _preening_, and Dean realizes he’s going to have a harder time winning this game than he thought. It’s still possible, though. Dean can make for the triples and still surpass Castiel, as long as he doesn’t catch on. Shaky at best, but he can try.

It’s a companionable game, and then another. Castiel wins the first, to which Dean declares a rematch and manages through sheer willpower to win the second. It’s there that Castiel figures out Dean’s tactic and asks for a third, which Dean – against his better judgment – obliges. He loses their third and final game, of course, but he doesn’t feel the least bit upset about it. Not when Castiel’s ridiculous pride and faux humbleness to own up to it makes him laugh. It’s getting late when they’ve finished and a few other customers have been waiting for the darts, so Dean pays for his and Castiel’s drinks and heads out. Castiel comes to his side once they’re on the sidewalk, and Dean realizes he might be a tiny bit drunk when he bumps his shoulder into the angel’s.

“I’ll walk with you to your car,” Castiel says.

Dean smirks. “Like a date, huh?” He gives his shoulder a pat. “You’d make some girl real happy if you did that kinda thing.”

Castiel smiles. “Even after championing over her at a game of darts?”

Dean laughs. He manages to remark how he’s not even asshurt after all, and Castiel comes back with, “Well you shouldn’t be, I did tell you I’d been javelin throwing for millennia longer than you have,” and Dean laughs even more. It’s because he’s a little drunk, as he had realized earlier, that he throws his arm around Castiel’s shoulders as they walk. They might’ve passed the Impala by now, Dean’s not sure, but he keeps laughing, until, “I like you,” jumps, unbidden, from his tongue.

Castiel's smile falls. He pauses in his walk as his gaze, once locked with Dean’s, drops. Quietly, he admits, “I like you too,” but in spite of the sincerity, it's belied with something like guilt; panicked realization. Dean gets curious over what it could be for – they've breached something, in their relationship full of ire and reluctance, that he feels he needs to reach through – and his mouth rolls open to ask, but in between this blink and the next, the angel is gone.

So he’s still a fan of the dick vanishing acts, Dean thinks sourly, but he’s left Dean with a feeling cultivating warm in his chest. He thinks, against all odds; of how they’d come to meet and how their paths had crossed and intertwined; against what both of them had seemed to want; he’s somehow made a fast friend within the angel.

He wonders why that feels like an omen.

<//>


End file.
